Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
by nonotthatone
Summary: Clex, one-shot, holiday fic. A Smallville Christmas truce. The bittersweet last installment of my collection of Clexmas Carols.


Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

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Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: A Clexmas Carol

Clark has music playing while he cooks. It takes a few flips of the dial to find the right station; it seems everyone has their own Christmas album out nowadays, but the old standards are his favorites by a mile. The sound fills his apartment comfortably, as do the strengthening aromas of sage and savory. The turkey is in the oven already, and the counters are spread with a variety of tools and ingredients. Martha's recipes, lovingly handwritten on their little index cards, are taped to the cabinets right at eye-level for easy reading.

He'd like a glass of wine right about now, too: red. Not that he feels anything from it, but the flavor is beautiful and it compliments the festive mood. He'll have to wait, though; Lex always brings the wine.

He glances at the clock and takes one more turn around the place, fluffing pillows and running fond fingers over the decorations. He makes his bed for a place to lay coats, and double-checks that the door to his closet - his costume hung from the hook on its back - is firmly closed.

None of that today. It's Christmas.

Right on time, the doorbell rings. Clark told everyone to come at 2 for dinner at 4; but Lex always arrives early. They pretend it's to help cook.

He opens the door. He never can help a thrill to find Lex standing there; despite all the times they've done this now there's still a part of him that expects to be stood up. But there he is, looking like he just stepped out of Clark's memories, his long dark coat unbuttoned at the throat to expose a patch of grey cashmere sweater. The thin line of his scar stretches as he smiles in greeting; his shoulders and the skin of his scalp sparkle with melting snowflakes.

He steps over the threshold and offers the wine bottle - Pinot Noir this year, lovely - and his coat. Clark accepts them both and tries not to notice how he leaves one glove on.

There would have to be, he supposes, a few minor differences from his memories.

"It smells wonderful," Lex says, following him into the kitchen. "What's on the menu this year?"

"The traditional," Clark answers over his shoulder as he checks his timers. "Turkey and all the trimmings, mashed potatoes. Lots of pie."

"Fruitcake?"

"Depends if Lois shows up," Clark jokes.

Lex smiles. "And the rest?"

"The usual crowd. ... well, except Mom." Clark busies himself with basting.

Lex is at his side, placing his good hand on Clark's elbow. "I heard. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." He swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Just the onions."

"I know." Lex lets the lie be, and doesn't move away. "When will they be here?"

"Not for another few hours." He turns from the oven, puts down his potholder - it's all for show anyway. But he wants his hands to be empty as he faces Lex.

They aren't for long though; Lex takes them. "So we have some time."

This has become part of the tradition, too - the part Clark probably cherishes the most. The first time Lex kissed him at Christmas it had been with passion, the release of years' worth of pent-up anger and hurt, and his bewilderment at being invited at all. They'd come together with abandon and lost all track of time and place. Though Lex remained hard to rumple, Clark had answered the next doorbell feeling pretty disheveled. He'd used speed to straighten his clothes, but he was pretty sure Chloe knew what she'd interrupted anyway.

They've grown less hasty in subsequent years; the heat is still there, but the headlong rush has been replaced with tenderness. They make love to each other now, not just as themselves, but as their past, their mistakes and regrets - and their knowledge that tomorrow, everything will go back to the way it is.

It has to, after all.

But today - today is Christmas.

"Happy Holiday," Lex whispers along with the radio and Peggy Lee, and presses a kiss against Clark's temple. They lay in his bed, the sunlight streaming through the curtains - sheer, for privacy, but also to let in the yellow light.

"I didn't even have to trick you with mistletoe," Clark answers, giving him a gentle squeeze. He will always marvel at how human Lex feels in his arms, how fragile - it's so easy to forget, given the way they usually meet nowadays.

"Where did you hide it this year?"

"Oh no," Clark smiles, and kisses him. "I'll get you yet, Luthor."

"Is that a promise, or a threat?"

"Both." Clark strokes his face and tries to ignore his heartache.

Lex nods solemnly and finds a place to rest his head in the hollow of Clark's shoulder. For a few minutes they simply touch - touch, and breathe. Then, sadly, Clark makes his annual hopeless gesture. "Lex ..."

"Shh," comes Lex's annual closed reply. "Just hold me."

Clark's throat tightens, but so do his arms. Lex pulls up a blanket and they lie together in intimate silence until a buzzer sounds from the kitchen.

"Time to start those potatoes," Clark says.

"I'll peel," Lex replies, and reaches for his sweater.

While they work, the doorbell rings again; it's Chloe, the snow in her hair proving it's turned out to be a white Christmas after all. Her smile is as bright and her laugh as high and fragile as it always was. She drags behind her Pete, who after all this time is still content to shrug and follow her with his arms full of packages and bags. "I made gingerbread," she announces, handing one tin to Clark and waving Pete off to find a spot to put the rest of them. "It's a little burnt on the bottom, but still perfect for dunking in coffee."

"Thanks, Chloe." Clark pulls her to his heart the way he longs to all the other days of the year. She hugs him back, knowing well why he can't.

"What can I do?" she asks, blinking very hard.

"You could set the table. You always do such a nice job with it."

Clark and Pete shake hands and bump shoulders, then Pete heads for the living room to find some football on tv. In the kitchen, Lex lowers the volume of the music so Clark will be able to hear the color commentary while they're cooking.

"We saw Oliver looking for a parking space," Chloe calls from the dining room where she's already busy turning napkins into works of art.

"He drove himself this year?" Clark asks, surprised.

"No, sorry," Chloe answers with a smirk. "We were looking for a parking space. He was circling the block in his limo."

"Why ..."

"We also," she continues significantly, "passed Lois. She was walking up from the subway."

Clark nods, understanding. Oliver must always still expect to be stood up, too.

A few minutes later the bell rings again, twice in a row, the second time higher and more shrill somehow. Clark opens the door to familiar arguing.

"I told you I already rang it."

"Okay, Mr. I'm-Too-Rich-And-Important-To-Send-A-Christmas-Card. I'm entitled to ring it again if I want."

"Lois," Clark greets her with that half-sigh, half-grimace she loves so much. "Oliver. Nothing like tradition, huh?"

Lois turns on her heel and bounds into the apartment. "Merry Christmas, Smallville," she trills, kissing him on the cheek. Chloe is waiting at Clark's elbow to hug her. They go together to lay off Lois's coat; Clark tries not to notice the slushy mess her boots are leaving all over his floors.

He turns back to Oliver just in time to catch the fond expression in his eyes. They embrace too, and Oliver hands over another bottle of wine - appropriately, white. "Merry Christmas, Clark."

"Merry Christmas."

Each time Clark says it his heart grows a little lighter. He knows it's all a sham, an homage they pay at his request to the happier times they can barely remember. But if there's a day to do that - to pretend that pain and trouble are miles away - today is that day.

He performs his host's duties without an ounce of obligation; he loves their presence here with all his heart. He keeps their glasses full and the hors d'oeuvres coming, and tries his best to balance his time between them and the kitchen. There's a good view from beside the stove, though, so he can keep an eye on his guests without their even knowing. He smiles when he catches Lois and Oliver pretending to meet by accident in front of the tree. His fingers find her arm as if by instinct, and she leans into him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Because, well – it is.

Lex, as always, mostly lingers in the kitchen; whether it's out of aloofness or just wanting Clark all to himself is never entirely clear. When the turkey is done, Clark shoos him out so he'll have room to carve. He watches, though, as Lex steps across the invisible no-man's-land between the dining and living rooms.

Oliver, who had been perching on the edge of the sofa and shouting at the television with Pete, rises carefully and offers a handshake. "Merry Christmas, Lex."

Lex accepts it. "Merry Christmas, Oliver."

"Oh look!" Lois cries. "Chloe's under the mistletoe!"

Chloe, who had been innocently making her way back from answering the door, blushes prettily as Lex kisses her gallantly on the hand. He makes a faint obeisance, too, to the woman in her wake: Lana pulls back the hood from her hair, but not the one from her eyes, and nods silently in reply.

Finally all is ready; Clark announces dinner and there's a delightfully mad swirl as everyone hurries to collect their glasses and find their seats. Chairs scrape against the floor and napkins are unfurled; Clark's seating arrangement is tactful and universally applauded. He looks around the table, and the scene blurs a little - possibly nostalgia, probably tears.

He holds out his hands for grace; Chloe's is small and inkstained on his left, Lex's cool but strong on his right. He squeezes them both, and when they squeeze back he holds them as long as he can.

These Christmas truces will always break his heart a little, but through the years he'll still look forward to them. They are the last traces of what he always wanted - of what he dares to hope might somehow, impossibly, be again.

You never know. It could happen.

But until then, this is how he'll muddle through.


End file.
